GOT: Arthur the Eagle Knight

It all started with my own death. A brave one, I suppose. I was walking home after a late-night shift, rain drizzling down in the dim streetlights. I was just a few blocks from my apartment when a scream sliced through the quiet. I turned toward the sound and saw them—three men in a dark alley, cornering a woman, trying to tear her clothes off. I'd seen scenes like this in movies and on the news, always feeling that sharp mix of fear and disgust. But this? This was happening right in front of me.

"Keep walking, pal," one of the men snarled, barely glancing my way.

I should have. I could've kept walking and pretended I hadn't seen anything. But something inside me snapped. Maybe it was the way the woman's eyes pleaded for help, or maybe I was just tired of the cruelty. I wasn't a fighter. Sure, I'd been in a few scrapes and taken a month's worth of kickboxing, but I wasn't a hero. Yet, I knew I couldn't just leave her.

"I don't think so," I heard myself say, pulling out my phone and dialing 911.

As soon as the call connected, the men rushed me. Panic hit, and I bolted toward the main street, hoping the light and people would deter them. But before I made it far, one of them slammed into me from behind, sending us both crashing to the ground.

What happened next is a blur. I remember fists, pain, and the other two men joining in. And then... the sharp, cold stab in my chest. The knife must have pierced an artery, because suddenly, blood was pouring out, and I felt my strength ebbing away. The men froze, watching the blood with wide eyes before they panicked and ran, leaving me in the rain.

I knew I was dying. I remember seeing the woman running toward me, her face twisted in horror, but my vision blurred, and darkness swallowed me before she reached me.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be blind, deaf, mute, and paralyzed all at once? I hadn't. But that's exactly what death felt like—complete isolation in a world of nothingness. No sound, no sight, no feeling. Only my thoughts, floating in an endless void. Time didn't exist. A day could've passed, or a year, and I wouldn't have known. Strangely enough, it didn't drive me insane. I was just... there. Until I wasn't.

I saw light again.

Being born with all the memories of your past life is a disorienting experience. Babies can't see well at first, but even the blurry light was a welcome relief after the endless dark. I could hear, though faintly, and from the accents around me, I knew I was somewhere English-speaking.

The midwife wrapped me in a blanket and handed me to a woman. I'll never forget her soft whisper: "Arthur."

It took me about a month to fully grasp where I was. Babies don't do much besides feed and soil themselves, so I had plenty of time to listen. And that's when I heard my mother—young, no older than sixteen—talking to another woman. She whispered about the king being mad, but her friend immediately shushed her, warning her about the wildfire, a fate worse than death for speaking ill of the king.

That's when it hit me. I was in Westeros. Not just anywhere, but in King's Landing itself, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.

It took a while for that to sink in. But as a baby, time was all I had. Over the days, I gathered more from the conversations around me. My mother worked in an inn, a place bustling with all kinds of people. She wasn't related to the owners; they were just kind enough to give her and me a small room in exchange for her labor. She earned fifty coppers a week for endless hours of work.

I was a bastard, born into a world where that word meant more than just illegitimacy—it meant survival, cruelty, and, perhaps, opportunity.